


It's the Gay Pumpkin, Sherlock Holmes

by englandwouldfalljohn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Tiny Walking Umbrella, ALL THE FLUFF, But Then Exactly How You Think, But not how you think, Couples Costumes, Decorating the Flat, Did I Mention Fluff, Doctor Who References, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, First holiday as a couple, Fluff, Gift Fic, Greg Can't Say Daenarys or Targaryen, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, John Gets an Owie, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John is the best boyfriend, Johnlock Roulette, Lisping Sherlock, M/M, Newly established relationship, No Angst, No Those Aren't Their Costumes, Prompt Fic, Pumpkin carving, Pumpkins, Sherlock Being Festive, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson in Love, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Sherlock likes dogs, Too fluffy, Winning Couples Costume, candy corn, halloween party, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 14:06:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12559028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: John and Sherlock are finally together, just in time for Halloween. Pumpkins, couples costumes, the Met party, and embarrassing Mycroft are all on the agenda - nothing but pure sweet Johnlock fluff for this lovely late October holiday!





	It's the Gay Pumpkin, Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FinAmour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/gifts).



> A gift for [finamour](http://archiveofourown.org/users/finamour/pseuds/finamour), who wanted all the things and wasn't afraid to ask <3

Painstakingly polished leather shoes ground at dried leaves as though they were cigarettes to be extinguished. Technically, the patches had been working, but old habits died hard.  When he’d run out of leaves, Sherlock Holmes examined the time on his mobile dramatically, then turned on his heel and began crunching his way down the pavement along the edge of the park, hiding the satisfied smile arising at the annoyed huffing of the man behind him, jogging to catch up.

“It’s unseasonably warm for October, John; I don’t understand why you insist on stopping for hot cider.”

“Just because the weather is unseasonable, doesn’t mean it isn’t still the season.” The doctor cast a relaxed smile at his paper cup, humming as he swallowed his first sip. He felt the silver-grey strands of his hair fall across his forehead, bobbing slightly due to the lengthened stride his partner demanded. Rather than push them back, he allowed a slight smugness to creep into his expression. Glancing up under the pretense of considering where to cross the road, he recognized the flushed skin on Sherlock’s neck and the sheen of recently licked lips - he didn’t understand it, but something about his swishing hair affected the detective every time.

“Stop staring. I know you know. You know I know you know. Now please, can we get  _ on _ with it? I’ve been waiting weeks for you to take time off from that… that…  _ job _ you insist on having, and you know as well as I that this truly cannot wait one more day.”

“Sherlock, it was one six-day week. Believe it or not, I enjoy being a physician. And… ok, well, you’re right, it can’t wait another day. TAXI!”

Sherlock raised his arm behind John’s shorter one, and a black car came screeching to a halt beside them. As he slid in, John remarked that his hailing skills were finally improving; his boyfriend merely nodded.

*******

“No. No. Nope.” John’s arms were growing tired from holding up pumpkins for Sherlock’s inimitable inspection, yet his sigh was met with a sharp eyeroll. “What? I’ve done extensive research into the subject, and have determined that there are 17 criteria a gourd must meet to be acceptable for both carving and seed-roasting. We are now attempting to find not one but  _ two _ such prizes in London in a single morning. I am attempting, as I’ve heard you yourself put it, to do with what I’ve got. Now. Will you indulge me, or would you prefer that we keep separate bowls so as not to intermix your disappointingly flavorless seeds with my delectable ones?”

John endured similar speeches over sweets dishes, tea towels, novelty mugs, door hangings, fake cobwebs (“Mrs. Hudson will just vacuum them up, you know”), and for reasons he would probably never understand, neon yellow spray string in a can. By the time he was home, standing on a chair hanging orange fairy lights in their bedroom - the cauldron-shaped set was in the sitting room, at his grave insistence - Sherlock was already picking up an early dinner next door. 

The fact that the consulting drama queen ate proper meals at least once a day when there were no intense cases on was one neither of them had quite gotten used to. The detective had taken to whining about their (his) dry cleaner shrinking their (his) clothes, despite John’s losing weight now that their cases brought in enough money for him to cut back his hours at the surgery and take up kickboxing. His increased agility had been noted by several acquaintances at the Met, as well as more than a few female clients. Which is why it came as such a shock to him when he stepped to the right while placing a hook above the curtains and tumbled off the chair, directly into the arms of a frantically shouting Sherlock who immediately collapsed into a heap on the floorboards.

*******

“Let. Me. Up,” he forced through gritted teeth which indicated that his poorly hidden wince should not be mentioned. “I thought it was psychosomatic, yeah? Nothing a quick shot of adrenaline couldn’t fix. So then let’s--”

“Nice try, John. But what Afghanistan failed to accomplish, 221B managed spectacularly easily.”

The six-foot tall detective-come-nursemaid barred his doctor’s ability to climb off the sofa, inspiring a rather soldier-like string of curses and insults as he awkwardly fluffed and repositioned the two pillows he’d crammed behind the injured man’s back between bouts of protest.

“Hoo hoo! Boys! I’ve just taken my evening soother and thought perhaps Sherlock might play us a -- oh dear! John, leg again?” Mrs. Hudson floated in through the kitchen, already filling the kettle before noticing the scene taking place across the flat. John slumped back against the pillows in defeat. Between the two of them, he’d be lucky not to be strung up in traction and fed soup through a straw by the end of the evening. Best to keep his mouth shut and allow Sherlock to answer their landlady on his behalf.

“He fell off a chair in the bedroom while--”

“Oh no, dear, I don’t need to know what you two get up to in there. As long as I can’t hear it, it’s--”

“HANGING LIGHTS FOR HALLOWEEN.” Sherlock’s eyes grew wide and rosy blotches appeared on his neck. For all his bravado, he adored her too much not to be mortified at the thought of embarrassing her.

“Thank goodness!” Her hand flew to her chest. “It’s none of my business, you know, but I was a bit concerned, really.”

“Mrs. H! John has, despite his wholly unconvincing denial of the situation, injured himself due to the fall. Though he assures me he can ‘walk it off,’ he is well aware that if he is not properly healed by the weekend before Halloween, the sofa where he now resides shall be his bed for the month of November. Therefore, in regards to your original inquiry: yes. Please put on some tea while I select an appropriate piece. I’m sure I can find something,” his eyes pinned John’s gaze meaningfully, “that will have you riveted to your seat.”

*******

“Let me get this straight,” Greg interrupted, returning from the kitchen with two fresh beers and dropping into Sherlock’s chair. “He actually played Monster Mash on the violin?”

John took a long swig while answering with a heavy nod.

“Poor bloke must’ve been desperate. Though by the looks of this place...” his eyebrows raised, lips forming a silent whistle as he slowly soaked in his surroundings. Windows painted to look like Nosferatu and Frankenstein’s monster, cobwebs (that John was certain they had not purchased) hanging in the corners of the ceiling, and the open sitting room door graced by what appeared to be a witch who’d crashed while flying her broom.

“Yeah,” John agreed, chuckling. “He does love his holidays.”

Lestrade furrowed his brow, but said nothing. In the years that he’d known Sherlock Holmes, he could not recall even one holiday the man had shown the slightest interest in celebrating. Hell, he usually refused to acknowledge holidays altogether, aside from providing one or two ill-tempered rants about inane idiots or something. Curious, actually, that he’d suddenly be going all out for something so utterly undignified, especially so soon after…

“It’s you, isn’t it?”

“Wha’d’ya mean?” John asked distractedly, shifting his weight to relieve pressure on his still-bruised hip.

“You like holidays,” the DI returned accusingly.

John shrugged and sipped his beer. “Who doesn’t?”

“Your boyfriend, that’s who. Well, until you two shacked up together last month, that is.” John’s head tilted at the not-actually-accurate turn of phrase. “Alright, yeah, you were already living together. But you know what I mean. And now suddenly there are..." he searched for something egregiously Halloweeny to prove his point, “there’s a bowl of candy corn, of all ungodly things, sitting next to his chair.”

“So you  _ are _ aware of whose chair it is in which you’ve made yourself so comfortable.” A deducing expression and annoying cheekbones preceded Sherlock into the room.

“I am. Happen to have been here once or twice, though you’d never know it, way one of the blokes who lives here treats me.”

“And do tell, Gavin. What is it that brings you on this particular visit?”

Lestrade’s face darkened a shade as his posture grew defensive. “Need a word with John, if that’s alright with you.”

“Perfectly,” Sherlock replied, untying his scarf. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Alone.”

“Oh. I see. Well then, enjoy your little  _ chat. _ John, do remember our plans. Six o’clock. And Geoff,” he threw over his shoulder as he retreated down toward the street, “do give my regards to my brother when you speak with him this evening.”

John cast an inquisitive glance at Greg, who looked confused.

“I swear, mate, I have no idea why he thinks I’d be talking to Mycroft tonight.”

“Since when do you call him ‘Mycroft?’”

“Yeah, well… that’s sort of what I came to talk to you about…”

*******

_ Utter nonsense, that’s what it is. _ Sherlock’s right cheek twitched, pulling his nose into a half-hearted snarl at Greg having the nerve to kick him out of his own sitting room just to have the world’s most obvious -  _ and disgusting _ \- conversation with John. He was already marching up the stairs back into the flat. In the first place, he wasn’t sure why he’d even left. In the second--

“Candy corn are delicious!”

The resident blogger raised one finger as he hunted and pecked a final word before hitting save, then turned a less than surprised expression on the swirl of wool and leaf-strewn hair filling the doorway.

“‘S why I bought the big bag. Any other pronouncements you’d like to make, or d’you mind if I switch on the telly for a bit?”

“Lestrade. He’s gone. He should’ve been here at least another--” he consulted his watch, “twelve minutes.”

“Work called for him -- NO, just paperwork -- and are you honestly telling me that you’ve rushed back from… well, apparently, from rolling in a hedge… to confront a police officer about candy corn? Wait, ‘course, what am I saying. You’re Sherlock Holmes. You definitely rushed back from rolling in a hedge to confront a police officer about candy corn.”

“They. Are. Delicious. And he’s not just a police officer. Not for long, anyway.”

The detective’s expression drew into what John would carefully avoid calling a pout as he threw himself into his leather chair. He answered his blogger’s, “So you know?” look with one of, “Obvious.” John sighed and switched off the television; the weeping angels would have to wait to take Manhattan.

“Since we’re both here now…”

Sherlock huffed as he crossed the room again to hang his coat and scarf, batting absentmindedly at the leaf still caught in his curls. “I suppose you want me to--”

“Here, let me get it,” John leaned up, gently tugged the dry, crumbly oak debris loose, and turned for the kitchen bin.

“Hm, thanks,” he mumbled before going on in his original tone “--to do the laundry or rake the fireplace grate or some other tedious domesticis opus.”

“Actually…” John finished his sentence by lifting two large pumpkins onto the kitchen table. Sherlock’s eyes grew wide. It was only four o’clock, and they weren’t scheduled to begin carving until six. There had to be a--

“No catch,” he was assured. “I did have a thought. How would you feel about carving each other’s pumpkins?”

It was as though Sherlock plucked the old sheet out of thin air, quickly rigging up fishing line and creating a shield down the middle of the table. Knives materialized beside John’s hand, a timer was set, and before he was entirely sure what was happening, he heard a baritone shouting “begin!”

Two hours. Two hours of tongues clenched between teeth, pumpkin pulp being scooped noisily into bowls, and hollow sawing sounds. Two hours of pencil-drawing, marker lining, and mild cursing. Two hours of muffled grunting, orange-stained hands, and tiny cuts awaiting plasters. Two hours that were simply not long enough in Baker Street.

“Aha.” The deep self-assured remark floated over the divider seconds before the timer buzzed. “Well, John? Is your masterpiece complete?” He raised an eyebrow at the dubious expression clouding his partner’s features. “Come now, it’s not as though your level of pumpkin artistry will inform me of the degree to which you love--”

The blogger’s eyes grew wide. Sherlock’s chin tilted ever so slightly to the right, his mouth gaping at his own slip. That was not a word they had used. Were using. It was not a word that… The detective swallowed. They weren’t there yet. John wasn’t there yet. Assuming he would be. Which, as with all assumptions, could be incorrect at its very core.

“Sherlock, I, um…”

“Halloween,” he attempted to salvage the sentence, despite the embarrassingly long pause. “It in no way reflects your feelingth--” coughing covered the lisp ineffectually “--feelings toward the holiday.”

“Right,” John replied slowly, deciding it would be best not to ruin the evening over this. “Right. So then. Ready?”

“On three.”

“One,” they chanted in unison. “Two,” their voices building like school boys. “THREE!”

“A TARDIS!”

“John, I hate to inform you, but… this,” his brow furrowed, “this is meant to be a police box. Like the one from that program you like, Doctor--”

“Who!” He nodded enthusiastically.

“No, John. Not who. What. The blue one, the one that’s all strange on the inside. I even have this blue bulb,” he fished one out of his pocket, “for you to place inside.”

“What?!”

“A blue bulb, John. For the police box. Because it’s… I thought this was your favorite program,” a discouraged frown tugged at his mouth, “but perhaps I was mistaken?”

“No. I mean yes. Well, no. Sherlock,” John began again, “yes, it is my favorite show. Yes, it is a blue police box, and yes, you are amazing to have noticed. It’s called the TARDIS, the police box is. It stands for--”

“Perhaps,” long fingers flexed after hours of meticulous carving, “you could hold the details for later?”

“Oh, right, yeah. Sorry. Anyway… here’s yours!”

The smile faded from John’s face as his partner stared rather disappointedly at the cat wearing a witch’s hat. He’d thought it was cute and topical, and with the way Sherlock had been enjoying himself -- for once -- while celebrating a holiday, he’d thought he might get a kick out of it. Sure it wasn’t as personal as the TARDIS, but --

“You hate it.”

“I don’t hate it.”

Short shoulders slumped a bit as he turned toward the sitting room, only to have his arm caught and pulled back into a pulpy embrace.

“I don’t hate it, John. It’s only… well, I suppose it’s time you know. I… prefer dogs.”

“Dogs,” John pondered, pulling back and picking a seed out of an almost-black curl. “Right.”

***

Sherlock Holmes blinked. Long auburn lashes fluttered as his eyelids drew closed on the world. Ghostly blue-white lids rose again, revealing irises like cold water lapping on a distant shore. He noted John’s shiver at the sight, and suspected he must be doing it again.

“You. Want. Me. To…”

“Sher, it’s not that unusual for people to go in coordinated costumes where they’re… well, you know. When they’re a… couple.” He shuffled his feet nervously. He’d been so excited leaving the shop, it’d never occurred to him that Sherlock might say--

“No. That’th not,” he cleared his throat dramatically. “That’s not what I meant. You… want me. To go with you. Together. To this party. Why?”

“Well, you know. I enjoy your company. And after all, you are my…” he paused a beat, suddenly too aware that they’d never named it to one another, “boyfriend.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up, grey turning to a hazy green as the blue skies of John’s eyes warmed them from the edge of the kitchen. Unfolding himself gracefully from his chair, he crossed the space between them in what seemed like two long strides, landing just inside of John’s personal space. His eyes roved over the older man’s features, down his neck, then flicked to the overlarge carrier bags in his hand.

“What then, pray-tell, are you suggesting _for_ _ us _ ?”

“Actually,” he shook himself internally (this was not the time for distraction), “it’s a bit more than the usual… the new usual us. I’ve, um. I’ve planned for three.”

The detective’s nostrils flared, his composure slipping woefully for several milliseconds before recovery. They had just discussed that this would be a couples costume, had just finally said that word they’d been thinking but hadn’t used to very clearly define what this was. What value could there be in adding another person?

John saw the concern splashed across his face and began speaking quickly, trying to head off a deduction spiral. “She’s just down in Mrs. Hudson’s flat, I’ll call down and have her brought--”

“ _ She? _ Oh… oh. Right. Couples costume, of course. Apologies for my confusion, I should have assumed…”

“No. No, Sherlock, no.” John shook his head hard, reaching out a hand for the man now turning away from him. “It’s not… this isn’t about a woman.”

“If it isn’t about a woman, John,” the spontaneously vulnerable-looking younger man countered, lifting his violin, “then what--”

A small squeaky bark filled the flat as its owner’s black muzzle barrelled toward Sherlock’s trouser leg. He barely had time to replace his violin loosely in the case before an otherwise tan bundle of shiny fur and flapping ears plowed into him, jumping and climbing toward his knee as though they’d known each other the entirety of the puppy’s short life. He knelt to pet the small dog, accepting licks to his face with an enthusiasm that John would never have believed had he not seen it himself.

“Mike Stamford’s dog had a litter a few months ago,” John explained to the room at large, as Mrs. Hudson winked from the stairwell and slipped quietly away. “And after the other night, with the pumpkins and everything, I just thought… well…”

“Wilhelmine.”

“What?”

“Wilhelmine Norman-Neruda. Austrian violinist, talent-wise the female counterpart to Paganini. This dog is intelligent and adaptable, and she deserves a qualified namesake. Wilhelmine.”

"Oh… uh… ok. Ok, if you like. But Sherlock,” John crouched beside him, joining in the outpouring of affection for the newest member of the  ~~ family ~~ flat, “we can’t go around calling a puggle Wilhelmine. There must be some--”

“Don’t be absurd, of course we won’t call her Wilhelmine. She’ll be... Willa.”

“Willa. I like that. I’ll just…” he watched Sherlock spring up to fill a bowl with water, and knew he was now speaking to himself, “lay out our costumes for tomorrow night. Right.”

***

They progressed foot by foot - sometimes inch by inch - through a veritable tunnel of cooing as they traversed the hotel lobby to the larger of the two function rooms, set slightly around a corner and therefore out of sight of guests of the hotel and it’s piano bar. As they joined the roomful of mingling Met employees, contractors, and significant contacts, the puppy was literally swept off her paws and carried to the outskirts of the crowd to be given what was sure to be an obscene amount of affection and more than a few appetizers. The evening was already in full swing, allowing them to go unnoticed once they’d been relieved of Willa’s celebrity.

“And just what are you supposed to be?” Anderson’s sneering voice rose above the din.  _ Nearly unnoticed, then. _ He stepped closer, taking in Sherlock’s blue jacket with familiar lettering. “Your costume is to be one of us? That’s not even funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be,” sounded the bored reply.

“It’s not even clever, is it?”

“Funny you should ask that…”

“Enough about the freak, what’re you dressed as? Someone’s uncle?”

John had noticed Sally approaching from his left, and was prepared for this. “Technically, no. Not yet anyway.”

Sherlock shot him an inquisitive glance then, to which John simply smirked shyly and shrugged a shoulder.

“Well either way,” Sally droned on, “they’re terrible costumes, yeah? Don’t see as you’ll be taking a home a prize.” She looked Sherlock up and down. “Or you.”

“In a way, you are correct,” the consulting detective answered with a mischievously calm tone, “neither of us will be taking home a prize.  _ We both will. _ It is, despite appearances, a couples costume.”

“A couples costume!” Anderson spit indignantly. “What kind of couple do you think you look like?”

“The gayest one we could imagine,” Sherlock offered before turning away, John chuckling and waving good-naturedly before striding after him into the room.

***

“Alright folks. We’ve come to the judging for couples costume. Again, we’ll be deciding winners by the amount of applause, so if you like them, make some noise! First up, we have… Jason and Maria as… Donald and Melania.” A weak sound of approval for the overplayed fancy dress idea led DI Lestrade, involuntary MC for the night, to shrug apologetically at the pair. “Next, we’ve got Alison and Murray, as… Dan… Danear-ees Tar… i don’t bloody know how to say this. Some blond woman and Jon Snow?” There was a mild uproar, including a shout of “winter is coming, alright!” which was met with a fair amount of laughter that Lestrade in no way understood. “And finally, we have John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, as…”

Greg looked up a John, all the color draining from his face. “No, mate… you can’t be serious.”

“Oh!” John exclaimed smugly. “We almost forgot! Sherlock, would you like to do the honors?”

“Willa? Willa!” The taller man called into the crowd, catching the ball of energy as she rushed to his feet and strapping a harness around her midsection so that a tiny black pop-up umbrella hovered above her. “And I believe you meant to say--” Sherlock removed a (stolen) NSY badge from his (also stolen) official issue jacket and flipped it open, “Gregory.”

A nervous chuckle went through the crowd, as John turned and faced his own inspiration, standing dumbstruck by the window. “Yes, Gregory. Quite. Now, Willa, if you would be so kind. Without Anthea here to call my car, I will require my brol--”

“Stop this at once!” Mycroft demanded. “Sherlock. Doctor Watson. I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but we’re not a couple.”

“Yes, we are.” Sherlock slipped his arm around John's waist.

“And for the record, I’m not actually gay,” Lestrade chimed in, face now flushed to burning.

“Well, I am,” intoned John. “Look at us both.”

The collective breath of the room was held as the DI shifted his weight and swallowed hard, twice. Then, without warning, he dropped the microphone with an “oh, sod it” and next moment was snogging - before his entire division - Mycroft Holmes. There was barely a murmur through the crowd until, still dressed as that obnoxiously iconic umbrella, Willa the puggle barked. The applause broke in waves then, and it was clear that the occupants of 221B would not be the only ones leaving with a prize.

***

As they opened the door to their flat, an unbearably energetic puppy ran ahead and disappeared, and they were too tired and self-satisfied to care. Let her do what she’d do, they had more than achieved their goals for the night.

“Sunday morning, Jawwwwwwn,” Sherlock yawned. “Technically speaking, only two more days to Halloween.” The flat was perpetually lit by the orange glow of cauldron fairy lanterns, making it easy and just faintly eerie to strip off their costumes on their way to collapse in--

“Willa!”

There she was, 4 kg of unadulterated happiness, stretched out on Sherlock Holmes’ Egyptian cotton pillow case.

“Oh well,” John hummed, lifting the covers and pushing his boyfriend in before pulling him close from behind.

“John,” Sherlock addressed the darkness nervously. “John, do you remember… when I said… well, almost said…”

“Mmhm.”

“John, there’s something… I should say. I’ve meant to say, always, and I never have…”

“Sherlock, it’s been such a good night. What are you--”

“I love you, John. I… do. I love you.” His swallowing was audible in the stillness of the October night.

“Sherlock. You must know by now. I love you, too.”

Curls rustled as Sherlock’s head turned over his left shoulder. “You… love me?”

“‘Course. ‘Course I love you.” John settled into the back of his partner’s neck, inhaling the perfect scent of home. “If this is Halloween,” he added as he dozed off, “can’t wait for Christmas.”


End file.
